Murder In School (Detective Inspector Skelgill Investigates Book 2), page 2
‘When did the death occur?’
‘Pathologist reckons he went into the water between ten p.m. and two a.m. last Wednesday/Thursday. He’d not turned up for assembly, and mid-morning the Head sent the groundsman to scout for him. He spotted the boat. Querrell kept the keys – so they suspected an accident and called 999.’
If Skelgill hadn’t returned so sleep-deprived from his trip to London, he might well have been out on the lake at the very time. One of his piking strategies was dead baiting in the small hours. It’s a couple of moments before he asks, ‘Did they find the keys?’
‘On a nail in the boathouse. Usual place if the boat was taken out, apparently.’
‘What was this guy Querrell wearing?’
‘Regular attire: tracksuit, trainers, underwear.’
‘Socks?’
‘No – but apparently he didn’t generally wear socks. Usually trainers or open-toed sandals.’
‘So he went out normally dressed?’
‘Looks like it, Guv.’
‘State of mind?’
‘Nothing in the reports, Guv. I’m sure we asked the question, though.’
‘Yeah.’ Skelgill sounds like he wouldn’t be surprised if ‘we’ didn’t.
‘Thing is, Guv, seeing as it’s cut and dried – why are we doing this?
‘Leyton, that’s what I’d like to know.’
‘So what are we going to say, Guv?’
‘Search me, mate.’
4. OAKTHWAITE SCHOOL
In all his thirty-seven years as a Cumbrian resident, Skelgill has never had cause to set foot inside the territory of Oakthwaite School. As he discussed with DS Jones, private and state schools exist in orbits that rarely intersect, and their product tends to settle in mutually exclusive echelons of the great British socio-economic firmament. Indeed, in common with most of the indigenous North Lakes youth Skelgill was blissfully unaware of the school’s presence until advanced teenage, when he detected competition for the favours of desirable local lasses in the form of sports car driving incomers, flashing banknotes with denominations the likes of which he had never seen. Not surprisingly, there were occasional rumpuses of a town-and-gown nature, though these days it seems that Penrith and surrounding villages are off limits to Oakthwaite pupils.
After a couple of wrong turns, for which Skelgill unfairly blames DS Leyton, and thus a formidable demonstration of both officers’ proficiency in Anglo-Saxon terminology, Skelgill determines that the high wall bordering the lane to their left marks the perimeter of the school. While he finishes DS Leyton’s bacon roll, Leyton eventually navigates their way to the entrance, which is marked by a stone archway bearing the school crest. There is little else to give away its presence; to all intents and purposes unsignposted, such casual anonymity exudes a quiet confidence: those who need to know will find us.
This isolated setting is typical of many of northern Britain’s great public schools. Whether by coincidence or design, such unanimity of location certainly must have secured for the privileged classes an education– both academic and social – conducted in an environment unpolluted by the undesirable mores of the great unwashed. (These schools’ founding fathers unable to foresee the advent of social networking.) Either way, the legacy is a cohort of highly regarded institutions that attract applicants from all corners of the globe.
Oakthwaite is no exception to this rule. Founded in 1866 by an enterprising locally born industrialist who made his fortune in the Satanic textile mills of Lancashire, the school was named after the tiny eponymous hamlet that was flattened to make way for it, and from where he hailed.
As they enter the property, Skelgill would like to pry about the gatehouse, but they are already ten minutes late and obliged to press on. The main building is a further quarter-mile, within an estate of some six hundred and fifty acres. Constructed in neoclassical style from imported buff-coloured sandstone, its first impression is of the Cotswolds, making it doubly incongruous in a region famed for its vernacular application of the ubiquitous locally hewn slate.
As DS Leyton slews their car to an undisciplined halt, spitting gravel and carving tracks in the neatly manicured turning crescent before the grand frontage, they inhale in silent unison: the place looks more like an imposing stately home, a far cry from their own educational experiences. After a short pause, Skelgill, not overly tall at five-eleven, but lanky enough, spills out of the small vehicle as if he has been cramped in for a much longer journey. He brushes flakes of crust from his person and straightens his jacket. Ignoring DS Leyton, who comes shambling after him, he pulls back his shoulders and trots up the five steps to haul on the large iron ring that serves as a bell-pull.
5. JAMES GOODMAN, OBE
‘Sorry to keep you, sir – we had to deal with a minor incident en route.’
Mr Goodman, a small neat man in his late fifties, with thinning oiled hair and thick round-lensed spectacles (a combination that, among successive generations of schoolboys, has consistently earned him the nickname Himmler), rises from behind an expansive oak desk as the detectives are ushered into his airy study. It’s a large room, and he does not come forward to greet them, instead choosing to stand his ground and check his wristwatch. He indicates somewhat unsmilingly that they should be seated before him.
Mr Goodman’s office shows signs that status is important to him. There are trophies and prizes, and his qualifications are prominently displayed. One wall is almost entirely given over to a collection of professionally produced photographs that can only be classified as self-aggrandisement: in which the Headmaster is seen meeting minor royalty, accepting awards, and giving speeches. He wears an expensive-looking tailored suit, and highly polished brogues.
DS Leyton straightens his tie – an act perhaps borne out of habitually being hauled before the Head in his own schooldays – while a twitch from Skelgill reveals he almost succumbs to the same reflex. However, Skelgill – as predicted by DS Jones – sports no tie. Earlier he had searched about, and located two – but they were already pressed into use in suspending a clutch of fishing rods from a beam in his garage, and he was not about to disturb the equilibrium of this important practical arrangement.
‘How may I help you, gentlemen?’
In phonological terms, the Head’s accent falls somewhere between BBC Bush House and Buckingham Palace.
As Skelgill might have anticipated, he’s calling their bluff. It’s a natural question, but surely ingenuous? And unfortunate for Skelgill, since the Chief’s instructions state that he is on no account to mention that this appointment came about at her behest – indeed her name is entirely off limits. That the Head and she are likely to be on hobnobbing terms would be a handy calling card. Instead, Skelgill is left to come up with something of his own invention. He gives a little cough.
‘DI Skelgill, sir. And this is DS Leyton. Naturally, sir, it’s in connection with the death of your schoolmaster.’
Barely perceptibly Mr Goodman cocks his head, as if he’s expecting Skelgill to elaborate. There’s a small battle of wills, during which the perspiring DS Leyton squirms uncomfortably in his leather seat, making a sound close to that of breaking wind. After what seems like an age, the Head ‘blinks’ first.
‘Officer, I understood your investigation is complete. I trust there’s not some frivolous reason for extending matters beyond their natural conclusion?’
While the Head’s tone is not offensive, his choice of words could be interpreted as somewhat patronising. In which case Skelgill exhibits considerable self-restraint in replying, ‘Certainly not, sir – we entirely understand the sensitivity of this issue.’
‘Do you, Inspector? What did you have in mind?’ Behind the spectacles, the pale blue eyes seem to narrow.
‘Your school’s reputation, sir – as a beacon of excellence and an important contributor to the local economy – we don’t want an unfortunate event like this to get blown out of proportion.’
The tension evident in the Head’s angular shoulders might now fractionally diminish. Perhaps Skelgill is talking his language. However, there’s scant indication in his inscrutable features to indicate any corresponding softening of his attitude towards the detectives.
‘You’re quite right, Inspector. But why should that be?’ We might be a ‘live-in’ institution, so to speak, but we can’t be held responsible for the private act of an individual. Therefore I don’t see any reason for this matter to become ‘blown out of proportion’, as you put it.’
Skelgill nods sympathetically. Then he turns to stare encouragingly at Leyton, who starts in surprise and then begins to look panicky, eyes widening. Is Skelgill expecting him to come up with the ‘bogus’ reason for their visit? He shuffles again in his seat, with accompanying sound effects.
‘Well, Inspector... is there something I ought to know?’ It’s the Head that speaks. His tone is one of impatience.
To Leyton’s evident relief, Skelgill turns back to face Mr Goodman.
‘Sir – you’ll appreciate I’m not at liberty to divulge precise details, but I realise we can fully rely upon your confidence.’
His inflexion suggests a question, to which Mr Goodman responds with the merest inclination of his head.
‘If I were to put it hypothetically, sir – let’s say somebody dies – and then a second person comes forward claiming to be an heir...’
‘Querrell has no heir. He lived here as a bachelor throughout his entire adulthood. The school was his life.’
‘So we understand, sir. In which case the scenario I’m describing would be a criminal offence and we would be obliged to investigate the imposter.’
Slowly, and with evident reluctance, the Head nods his affirmation.
‘On the other hand, sir, if by some small quirk of fate they turned out to be genuine, and we were – how can I put it? – heavy handed – they could kick up quite a stink – at the inquest, for example. The school might come in for some collateral damage. You know what the press can be like, these days, sir.’
The Head twists his lips like someone who has bitten into a lime. After a moment’s silence he intones, ‘So, Inspector – I return to my original question: how may I help you?’
‘Well, sir – you said it yourself. The school was Mr Querrell’s life. If we’re to nip this in the bud as quickly and quietly as possible, we have to start here. Of course we have your own statement. Perhaps if we could speak with those other members of your staff that were closest to him?’
‘And no requirement to interrogate any of the boys? You appreciate we’re right in the midst of exams?’
‘We’d be discretion personified, Mr Goodman.’
The Head rises and steps out from behind his desk. He crosses to the large sash window that gives on to the front of the school and looks out, rocking from his heels to the balls of his feet. Then he turns, revealing the remnants of a disapproving scowl. He says, ‘You could begin, Inspector, by parking less conspicuously. There’s a tradesman’s area at the rear.’
Skelgill bows in a deferential manner, then points a reprimanding finger at Leyton, as if passing the blame in clumsy schoolboy fashion. The Head returns to his desk and leans over an intercom. His call is immediately answered by a well-spoken female voice.
‘Yes, Headmaster?’
‘Miss Brown, please spend a few moments assisting these officers with the arrangement of some interview times. I would suggest it might be most tactful to begin at first sports period this afternoon, when certain masters are free.’
‘Of course, Headmaster.’
6. THE BURGER VAN
‘He bought it, Guv. Nice one. I’d never have thought of that. For a moment there you had me filling my pants.’
‘It sounded like you were, Leyton.’
‘It was the chair, Guv. I was boiling in that office. Brushes with authority always bring me out in a sweat.’
Skelgill munches into his third bacon roll of the morning and shakes his head. ‘Leyton, you crack me up. And of course he didn’t buy it.’
‘What do you mean, Guv?’ DS Leyton sounds nonplussed.
‘What he bought was that if we need to invent a reason to poke about, we would – I just gave him one that saved him losing face.’
DS Leyton looks bewildered, and consoles himself by tucking into his overdue breakfast. They both chew in thoughtful silence for a few moments, until DS Leyton remarks, ‘Decent rolls these, Guv.’
Skelgill nods. ‘We’d better not make a habit of parking here – the Chief comes this way to work. We’d be sitting ducks.’
‘She can’t get too shirty yet, Guv – we’ve only just started on this one.’
‘Maybe – but there’s not much window of opportunity – unless we can quickly find some grounds for suspicion Goodman will turf us out on our ear.’
‘It’d be nice to know what the Chief’s got up her sleeve, Guv. It’s not right sending us out in the dark like this.’
Skelgill nods resignedly. ‘She can’t chance it going public.’
‘If it were a murder, Guv, I don’t see how she could have any inkling.’
‘If it were a murder, it was a bloody clever one.’
‘What else then, Guv?’
‘Search me. Some bigger picture that the school doesn’t want us to see?’
DS Leyton nods reflectively, but doesn’t offer any suggestion.
Skelgill continues, ‘At first I wondered if it were the school calling us in on the QT – via the Chief. She must be acquainted with this Goodman character – you know how all the local bigwigs and the county set knock about together. But Goodman’s reaction seems to dispel that theory. We’re definitely undesirables in his book.’
‘What about her son, Guv – she might have heard something from him? It would explain why she can’t risk getting involved.’
‘I expect the social networks have been buzzing – did you notice that honours board in the entrance hall? It lists the families and the number of generations they’ve sent to Oakthwaite. It included the name Querrell. That’s why I figured I was on safe ground hinting an heir had come forward.’
Leyton crams the remainder of his bacon roll into his mouth and gives a wide-eyed nod of affirmation. It doesn’t look very convincing. He washes down his food with the remnants of his beaker of tea. ‘So, Guv – what have we got? The perfect murder? Or Querrell driven to suicide by forces unknown? Or nothing sinister whatsoever?’
‘Or something else.’
DS Leyton sighs quietly. This is a familiar situation: if DI Skelgill gets the merest hint of some irregularity, an errant piece of the jigsaw that doesn’t fit – that might have found its way in by accident from another puzzle altogether – he’ll refuse to be drawn towards what might seem the obvious, convenient and perfectly adequate conclusion. Instead he’ll pursue any number of unpromising leads, explore blind avenues, and concoct improbable theories, giving the impression that the investigation is going nowhere fast, and everywhere else slowly. Then, suddenly, early one morning, he’ll come back from a fishing trip on Bassenthwaite Lake and move in for the kill with all the devastating speed and single-minded ruthlessness of the pike.
Another of Skelgill’s traits – techniques, even – is one for which DS Leyton plays a natural if sometimes unwitting foil. As in the case of their interview with Mr Goodman, the Head of Oakthwaite, as Skelgill will happily admit after a few pints of local ale, he likes his opponent to think he’s stupider than he really is.
Now Skelgill uncharacteristically collects together the debris of their second breakfast, and to DS Leyton’s obvious surprise climbs out of the car and heads for the litter bin at the far end of the layby. En route, it appears that his mobile phone rings, for Skelgill extracts it from his pocket, peers at the screen for a moment, and then puts it to his ear, lingering beside the waste depository. Leyton can see what’s going on, but can’t hear the conversation.
‘Jones.’
‘Guv?’
‘Why are you whispering?’
‘Hold on a sec.’ There’s a pause and, after a couple of moments, Skelgill hears the sound of a door closing. ‘Guv – it’s a kind of stakeout.’
‘Where are you?’
‘In a bar in Carlisle. In the Ladies’ – now.’
‘A drug deal about to go down?’
‘Supposedly, according to...’
‘Smart? You’re not with DI Smart?’
‘Fraid so, Guv.’ Jones must sense Skelgill’s irritation. ‘Look, Guv – he’s okay – I can handle him.’
‘So what are you two – playing the courting couple, smooching in the corner?’
‘Look, Guv – you know how these things work. Don’t let Alec get under your skin.’
‘Alec?’
‘Give us a break, Guv – it’s just another job.’
‘Yeah, but...’
Skelgill’s voice tails off. Perhaps the significance of her words sinks in.
‘Guv – I’d better get back. Can I call you later?’
‘I need your help – PDQ.’
‘The school?’
‘Yeah. I’ve got a list of masters and staff as long as my arm. The Head’s put up a few for interviews, but they’ll be his stooges. I want someone who’s been there a long time and might know something about the guy, Querrell. If your family mole could suggest a name?’
‘Sure, Guv – I’ll text her right now. I called her this morning to say we may need a favour.’
Skelgill allows himself a small grin. She’s ahead of the game as ever. ‘Great – just drop me the details as soon as you get them. I’ll be at Oakthwaite from about one.’
‘Will do.’
‘Send my regards to Smart.’
‘Naturally, Guv.’
Skelgill walks back to the car, shaking his head. As he does so, a shapely blonde woman in a close-fitting miniskirt alights revealingly from a small scarlet convertible that has pulled up between the burger van and the unmarked police car. Evidently consumed in thought, Skelgill doesn’t seem to notice her passing. He clambers back in beside Leyton, who quips, ‘Guv – get an eyeful of that.’
